After a week of caring for everyone else I am tight and tired and I need to go to the sea. The path to the bottom of the cliff is blocked by a landslide. From the cafe at the top I can see the ocean laid out, blue at the bottom of the chalk, can see the low down railway line, the iron bridge across it, the tangle of green cloaking the land. But I cannot reach the sea itself and so I drive round, to the East Cliff, where I can walk by the base of the rock. I follow the path, slate grey mud, cracked and dry, as it winds up and down before dropping me out on a rocky shore. At first it seems empty. Then, a man, crouched, baseball cap low, tapping rocks on other rocks. Searching, for something, for fossils I assume. I clamber over the bigger boulders, ankles rocking as the stones wobble, and onwards. There are sections of brick wall here, the yellowed lines of old mortar, each brick a different shade of rust. I find a perfect curl of turquoise sea glass, a purple grey slate, wafer thin, with a green slash through its centre, a shard of white pottery with indigo mountains on its edge.
I walk on, up off the sand, along the cracking concrete apron built to protect the railway from erosion. The wooden beams at its edges have been sculpted by the sea, wave edged, sinuous. There is weed, fine as sea-witch hair, green and sandy. It looks like it would be silky to touch, but it is solid, moulded to the rock, immovable. It starts my mind whispering about old legends, ‘evil’ aged women and how often they abound in folklore. How we are taught women can be maiden, mother or crone with little left in between. I walk the back of another beach and past, to the next apron - a great expanse of concrete, wide and thick, blocky steps down into the sea every 100 metres. This is where I decide to get in.
I change in the shelter of the steps, though there is no one around to see. It feels like I am doing something forbidden, clandestine. Someone told me once that I would stop caring about drawing attention, but I never have. I do not want to be watched. I think many people may feel the same, that that is something that holds them back from the water; not wanting to stand out, to be stared at. I still always feel this way. I do it anyway, despite this. And I try to find inconspicuous places to slip in, quiet, a secret between the sea and me. The water is still, rippling, blue black from above. It bounces into a gap in the steps, slushing, booming, laughing. I clamber down, clamber back up to check I am capable of getting myself out, that I will still be capable when I am cold. And then I go in.
The concrete drops away instantly and the ocean opens up. It smells so deeply, pungently green - like salt and weed and fish and colour. I strike out one way, parallel to the blocks. The low sun makes the lapping circlets of the waves silver, shapes slipping over the ever lapping surface. In the distance on the cliff top, white and towering, unstable and scree lined, a burst of black smoke. A fire. The smoke billows, swirls, huge and dark against the sky. I turn and swim against the gentle current and the water makes splashes where it hits my shoulders. It is clear and I can see my hands, my dangling legs, as I float, just for one moment, as if standing in the salt. When I turn back the fire has gone.
Back in Folkestone there is a statue of a mermaid on the main beach. Inspired in pose by the famous one in Copenhagen, this one is artist Cornelia Parker’s life cast of a local woman, Georgina Barker. It is a testament to the town and its people rather than to the sea, but it sits gazing out, at the element that edges us all, living as we do on an island. There is seaweed tangling around the green feet, almost a tail, so that the figure straddles the two, mythic but more real. This woman feels very much like she is there by choice, captivated by the sea, made wild by it, but never losing herself as the little mermaid in the Anderson tale did so tragically.
I climb out before cold claims me. As I change I find a tiny rock pool, a dimple, a divot in the concrete block. It is filled with tiny shells that look like mini mussels. They are open along the top, purple fronds waving gently in the water. I dress and walk back as the rain comes, fine, clinging, turning all behind me, the towering cliff where the land slipped and the fire burned, the concrete steps I descended on, into a blur.
Later, at home, I read what an important geological area this is. I read about all the fossils found here. Read that dinosaur footprints have been found. Read that the rocks here at The Warren are from 90-112 million years old, from a time when the organisms were changing so rapidly you can actually see how they developed in the fossils here. It holds 400 species of ammonite as opposed to the 40 found at famed Lyme Regis. Would it have been better, if I had known this before I went? Perhaps. But maybe wandering along and experiencing it with no pre-conceived ideas offers something else. Now I know what to look for. I can research fossil hunting, I can go with the aim of practicing patience - I have never made an amazing fossil hunter or beachcomber because I do not slow down enough. I don’t really know what I am looking for and I feel small in the face of all that I don’t know. But I can always start to learn. Either way, now I know it is there I can go back. There will be a new tide every day, and maybe each time it will wash up new finds.
Lovely. I long for the sea - how good to be able to enjoy your walk!
Although I grew up and have lived all my life in the western US, the few times I have been next to the sea have captivated me. I cannot tear myself away when I am next to her. The photos and your words bring that feeling back to me right now. Thank you.